dmseay

Morning in Manhattan and Dixieland jazz plays in a coffee house while cable news tells tales of Trump’s woes…..

Fights at rallys…..talks of walls…name calling….fist- pumping …A script straight from Morton Downey Jr……

And the sophisticates….no better….Nouveau Riche branded Mod-Dems….talk of stock options….Dale Carnegie….and how  unions are no-longer needed….It’s good to be the King…

As the music plays…. The Village idiots stroll-by….words once uttered by a youth rings loud… too loud.. “Why should I go see some toothless old nigger sing about problems I’ll never have…..”

Meanwhile….the jazz plays…turning into blues….More pushing and shoving on TV…..And only music is heard…sweet….sweet….trumpets of Gabriel….

Well….it was fun while it lasted….

They piss me off, the old-timer sittin’ at the corner of the bar said. Fat white chick’s sittin’ wit a couple ah shines, a gulp of Budweiser was taken. And why you might ask…. ‘Cause she’s too insecure to get a white guy…..uh…  right, said Billy Fitzgerald, as the neighborhood joint began to spill-out and into the streets of St. Louis’ northside.

Look around you, Billy dragged a Marlboro, all these skinny white broads….dressed nice….look good. …you think some stinkin’ no good shine’s gonna take one ah dem home, a head shook no, and Billy sang along to a Stevie Wonder song…., Fuck no….

And dees shines dey brag
’bout it….like it was a new car or somethin’……Imagine dat….braggin’ ’bout bangin’ some fat broad….da mind of a shine….

Heard one the other night….he said…Man…dis white bitch’s name was Brittany….or….was it Madison?….some shit….Whys  can’t dey have normal names like Jonquel….or…or….Laquesha…..Goddamn….,Fitzgerald let out a chuckle….a slight grin….

Billy rolled off the barstool and turned to the door. From down at the other end a young lady’s voice called out, Billy…..Your tab…..

Keep it rollin’ Ms….keep it rollin’…

She sat behind plated glass….phone in hand….making promises and forecasts…..

A sexual vagabond…always looking for a home….a safe bet….something to keep me warm….

Her voice….that Southern drawled Bourbon voice was the seducer…
Wasn’t the loose caboose….the carved-out bosom….the waxed Brazilian job…

It was that scratchy Bourbon voice….gluing me…..placing dollar after dollar after dollar into a slot….her slot….all was for the taking…

And next month….we’ll meet again…guarenteed….

She knows every toilet code in Chelsea…In her dew covered head….every single code….

McDonald’s at 7th and 34th…..Starbucks on 8th and 32nd….Gregory’s Coffee at 7th and 30th….everyday…..punching codes on silver keys 3619…5294….1687…2810…..a smile and turn of the handle for all…

And neatness is practised….nothing left behind….all waste is flushed…. prepared for the next customer….the next vagabond….the next tourist….the next….the next…..the next….

She knows every toilet code in Chelsea….In her dew covered head….every single code…

There are knights… there are nobles….And then….there is Chet Baker…..

There are poets and philosophers ….And then…..there is John Coltrane…

There are kings…..And then….there is Miles….

There are gods….Goodness….gracious…there are gods….And then…..there is Bill Evans….

Once upon a time music was beautiful…..once upon a time…..

There they stood….darkened…downstairs…standing by two-holed booths: ONE PERSON PER BOOTH….NY STATE LAW…NO TALKING IN LINE….. whispers

Pot-bellied tight tee-shirts worn by old fractured failings in the worlds of romance……Never-ending trysts with lads off the buses….found pissing at The Port Authority….payments for services rendered….

Either go to a booth or leave, the Punjab declares, This is not free show….

Noises of fucking…..sucking…and Bollywood musicals play deep into the mornings after midnights each and everyday with a thirty minute cleansing of the seeds from man….

No-one stands love struck….nor wanted….only wanting….waiting for youth in a tight pair of pants to dance his way back in time when they too were sought…

Look boys….Here he comes now…

New York isn’t what it used to be….Chicago… Philly….DC; DC’s always been a town of jack-off’s…so yes… some things never change….

The classes grow farther apart….the blacks feel more oppressed….whites think the short end has fallen to them….everyone a victim….an historic undercoating now shines brightly….the truth no longer dulled….We all got fucked….

It has become a competition for the winners of the worst in America…..The dwindling middle class has become cliche….the working class reduced and reduced and reduced in the melting pot to nothing more than a scent….a slight flavoring….Sop it up…..

But…..there are still bundles and bouquets in bodegas…. $1 slices…bagels with schmears on the EBT….and entertainment on every corner…

Among the hungry….the filthy… the strugglers….all of God’s children….there is hope…..some knd of fucking hope…..

And that is what’s left…..No longer a card to be played…. all have been dealt for a final hand…..and you just might get lucky….
.

Children beware of men in trench-coats with bare calves….

Women look-out for disgruntled men with fists made from the jawbone of an ass……

Blacks walk on the opposite sidewalk from the boys in blue….maybe they will…..maybe they won’t…..

Mexicans….don’t vote Republican….you’ll be sorry….

Fat white men watch your tongue….your days are numbered….

Homeless vets be thankful for a country to come home to….

Chinese bankers in Beijing….congratulations…..you won…

Management….destroy all union delegates now….the company needs you…

Yoga instructors living in uniforms…stop posing…

Pope Francis….keep trying….

That billionaire televangelist with the hot wife….loan me a couple of bucks….

Real Estate agents…..quit jacking the prices…

America…..stop being America…

Gertrude Stein sits on an oblong dairiaire watching ice melt in New York’s late winter…a change of season comes much too soon….Thanks Dow Chemical…..Thank you Exxon Mobil. …

Pictures are taken….as always…Manhattan’s architecture ignored….selfies shot by pretty things….girls not knowing Gertrude….neither dolled-up boys….Thanks? don’t count on it….

And….tucked away in a book-bag….a collection of words written by Langston Hughes…..The Waldorf still fumes….words hit the mark…

Is he remembered?….is anyone really…..Poems and stories and drunken tales and draft after draft after draft….written out in ink….finalized on a Smith- Corona. …

Gertrude…..Langston…..thank you….New York still has some culture….

Manhattan real estate….properties  in Chelsea….marked-by coats….jackets…newspapers..used coffee cups lined in cream…and $5 7-11 pizza boxes…emptied long ago…..

Yo….you in my spot, A face scarred   and brown is talking to you, Yo…you hear me?

And now one becomes four scarred brown faces…looking and waiting for movement….Take your book-bag/pillow….keep an eye out for vacancies….

But, there are none…..This guy’s looking out for that guy and this bitch be looking out for that hoe and my homeboy be back later-on and you be thinkin’ you smarter somethin’…..

This is how it was done in the pen…you gotta problem wit dat?….See we’s gotta way of doing things….You just got here…..you ain’t got no rights to be claimin’ dick……You feel me…..?

Yes….I feel you……I feel you…Yes I do indeed….